


Son of Pain

by mangacrack



Series: Trials of Revision [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Typical Mess of Everything, Explicit Sexual Content, Fall of Gondolin, Gen, Glorfindel is a literal ghost, Horrible Events at the Horizon, M/M, Maeglin Is Trying, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Well-meaning Turgon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23094673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: Maeglin lingers on decisions, Gondolin awaits its fate and Turgon prepares to be reasonable.
Relationships: Maeglin | Lómion & Turgon of Gondolin, Maeglin | Lómion/Tuor
Series: Trials of Revision [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/955542
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back with the continuation as promised. In case you are just stumbled on this series: this is a role reversal. Meaning that Tuor falls in love with Maeglin and Idril the one who betrays Gondolin. I recommend reading the other parts, especially the previous instalment or you might not understand what is going on.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Nothing new if you have read the series from its beginning. In this episode, most horror is only referenced to. The most graphic is the sex between Maeglin and Tuor. The rest remains a spoiler, I hate ruining certain surprises.

> _ There is nothing so bad,  
>  that it couldn't be worse.  _

Turgon changed fewer words with Tuor than he would have liked over the years. Recently, he has come to regret his lack of interest. Seeing his daughter frail and broken brings forth a terrible regret. If they had left Gondolin, had Itarillë been spared the fate which found her?

Turmoil in his chest makes it difficult to eat, let alone sleep.

Centuries of hiding in his city had not been of any use, one glance at his child and Turgon emptied his stomach as soon as he was alone. Hence why he refused dinner and only ate dry bread when the Atan did not relent. He feels a little bit better, Tuor's encouragements find fertile ground after Turgon suffered for months. He chose the solitude of his office over mingling with well-meaning people.

Finding Irilta standing next to Maeglin, both of them side by side in harmony despite their contrasting appearances, reminds Turgon of another difficult time when he watched his sister waste away after wishing for her save return for a century.

Twice now Turgon prayed for a miracle and twice he was forced to learn to be careful with his requests.

 _Oh dear child, am I only allowed a single embrace before you slip from grasp as well?_ Turgon wonders and moves to Idril's bedside. He brushes his thumb over her small hand and presses a single kiss on her forehead.

Little good came from his sister's death, but this time he will not sit in a chair, sobbing and presenting an awful image. Itarillë needs his support, his understanding and his love.

Lómion is as pale as the moon turning the mountains silver. His expression is guarded but visibly shaken.

Never Turgon has been so glad to have the Atan here in Gondolin as he is today. He questioned the development between the visitor and his nephew, but on advice, he held his silence. He watched Tuor build a connection with his sister's son he could never hope to have. The events of their initial meeting forever putting a sour taste to everything they tried to accomplish together.

"What were you talking about?" Turgon demands to know. During the last months, he has thrown himself into action, planning and plotting. Anything to keep his mind busy. As a result, he cannot stand the thought of remaining idle for too long.

There must be something they can do. Prepare his citizens for the sad news, hire more servants which will attend to his daughter's needs or gather the Lords to cancel the search parties.

The Healer and his nephew share a look. Last year Turgon would have missed it.

"My King...," Healer Irilta hesitates. His foul mouth and single-determined focus fail him on this occasion. His searching glance in Lómion's direction does not go unnoticed.

Turgon wonders how close they truly are.

"Uncle, I must officially request to use all my powers on the Princess. Since she is not able to give her consent, it falls to you."

Maeglin's eyes remain his cousin, unhappiness seeping from his every pore.

Turgon had been surprised at the extend of Lómion's skill in oswanë. The House of Fingolfin is well-taught, but none of them showed the sheer talent his nephew was born with. He easily masters subjects Turgon struggled decades to learn. It does not make him necessarily any happier. Rather, he prefers to avoid large crowds, though that could be due to his secluded upbringing.

Had Turgon known of any Elf capable of teaching his nephew anything _new_ in regards of oswanë, he might have considered his request to leave the city. The Fëanorians showed a natural affinity with the mind arts, but at that point, Turgon had not been willing to bet on their questionable help on a slim chance.

Again a decision he might come to regret. For now, there is no one to help his nephew with one of the cruellest tasks ahead of him.

For as King of Gondolin and the Valley of Tumladen he cannot take such an obvious risk. Even for his daughter, the safety of his citizens comes first. Itarillë was gone for a year. It is suspicious she was found stumbling through the mountains, close enough for to be snatched up by a patrol.

With a heavy heart, Turgon realizes he must gather the Lord in order to prepare them for battle.

"Yes, you have my permission. I fear Gondolin's location is no longer a secret," he says. His mouth thins into a straight line.

The words fall easier from his lips than expected. His voice is steady and his stomach calm. Perhaps, because he had a year of sleepless nights to get used to the idea that his city's location was no longer a secret.

"She shows no external signs of torture. Given her state, I find that alone reason for suspicion." Maeglin straightens and Turgon steps away to give his nephew room to work.

"Before you touch her mind, there is another information you must receive." Irilta clearly struggles with his composure. He exchanges another glance with Maeglin who frowns. "It concerns the subject we just discussed."

Turgon braces himself. Long practice makes the motion easy. He heard the verdict of his sister's fate, received reports of Fingon's death, of Angrod and Aegnor's demise and listened to the Fall of Nargothrond from Tuor's lips. Just a handful of blows among many, each of them driving the guilt of his inaction deeper into his soul.

When he begins to speak, the usual demeanour of Irilta's directness returns. A small comfort, in comparison, what kind of truth he is about to reveal. "During my examination of the Princess I kept questioning her bad state. She had access to food and water and does not have any major injuries. Cases in the past have proven that the bodies of the Eldar are endurable, capable of adapting in times of dire need. The explanation of why she is far too thin and sickly is to be found here."

All three men in the room gasp when the healer points a finger to Idril's stomach.

Irilta's fingertip on the blanket is damning and suddenly Turgon notices the slight swelling, which shouldn't be there. His mind flashes back to an entirely different world where his own hand cradled Elenwë's naked skin and he wept with the joy of feeling of his unborn daughter beneath it.

"She is ... pregnant?"

Turgon is chokes on his breath, unsure if Tuor or Maeglin uttered the horrible, horrible question.

The healer nods. He studies the princess' face and mutters, "Yes. As far as I am able to deduce, she channels most of her energy to the child, feeding it her strength."

"This might be the reason why she is otherwise in such a good state." Tuor clears his throat. When the three others throw him a questioning gaze, he says, "Slavers are usually benevolent to a captive woman who shows signs of pregnancy."

Turgon sinks back, grasping the edge of the bed because his shaking knees will not support him any longer. After Lómion brought him the news of Itarillë's retrieval, he expected to find a furious spirit, raging mad and riddled with scars as Maedhros had been. As much as he despised his cousins, he can only recommend how none of the brothers faltered or questioned their brother's place in their midst. They grew together during Maedhros' recovery, even closer than before.

He vowed to do the same for his child, only to find her not disfigured at all.

_Of course, it would have been too easy._

"Why?" Maeglin voices the question rattling through Turgon's head.

Tuor is silent for a time, then his eyes narrow. "Among the slavers I encountered, it is often difficult to determine the father. Not that they care, children of slaves have their uses as servants, future wives or soldiers. Sometimes they are ripped away from their mothers, minutes after the umbilical cord is cut and taken to new families. In times of war, a healthy child is a valuable resource."

Nausea, far worse than anything he suffered through after his meal, turns his stomach into knots and Turgon tastes bile on his tongue. The high ceiling, the carvings in the wall and the soft curtains are a mockery. Compared to what the Atan and his own daughter must have endured his palace display of luxury is an insult to their struggles.

Turgon imagines Itarillë waking up to the painting of the Two Trees at the ceiling. He would tear it down himself if he just knew how else he should decorate the room in order to make her more comfortable.

Gondolin is certainly beautiful, an architectural masterpiece but it is far from homely.

It misses his wife's touch.

Turgon shudders. For the first time since a thundering crack broke the ground beneath Elenwë's feet, causing her to vanish forever, he utters a prayer of thanks that she is dead. Lost or save in Mandos, his wife is at least not here to witness their daughter's fate.

As King, Turgon had been informed of Tuor's difficult past, the rumours about the years he lived in the wild alone and the possible reasons why he shied away from touch. He had not wanted to think about it.

With his own child in the same position, Turgon cannot turn away. He searches Idril's face for signs. Fading bruises, scars or anything else which gives him a hint.

Irilta places a hand on Idril's forehead. The touch is cold, but the Princess does not react. The only sign of life is the slow raising of her chest.

A small comfort, but Turgon clings to it.

Once, he robbed a boy the last parent he had left, ordering his execution because the law demanded it and he found no mercy in his heart for Eöl. Now, he is too numb to feel ashamed.

_Itarillë's child._

The thought crosses his mind, but he cannot comprehend it. Only that this life may be the only legacy his daughter will leave behind.

  
  


  
  


  
  


"If it helps, my Lords," the healer slowly says, in an attempt to soften the blow he just delivered, "I determined that the child is likely Glorfindel's, the Lord who went missing alongside the Princess."

_At least it is not Half-Orc._

Maeglin cannot forbid the thought. Next to him Tuor shifts, moving closer for comfort and under the thick layers of protection, Maeglin senses similar thoughts. Usually, he tries to keep his skills under wraps, for the privacy of the Elves in his vicinity. Tuor has no such self-awareness, only what must be the natural resilience of the Atani, but his lover welcomes the fact that he does not always have to talk out loud about nightmares plaguing him. Rather than go through the harrowing experience to voice his fears, Tuor allows Maeglin to pick up the memories.

All he needs is a touch, a brush of his fingers and a little bit of intent.

With Tuor, he does not need to be careful. His lover has no secrets before him.

The Princess has always been different. Lady Idril was an adult when they first met. She felt uncomfortable in her role to console a grieving soul that had not reached maturity yet. In the first months, she allowed casual touches but soon asked him to stop upon realizing it aided her young cousin to channel the mind arts.

The rift the Princess created turned into a polite distance Maeglin refused to cross after being told to stay away.

Maeglin resists the urge to run his finger across his cousin's face. She looked frail, delicate and yet worn. Pale compared to the healthy skin colour she possessed after spending the last summer in Gondolin outside. With his uncle sitting on the bed, cradling the Princess hand in his own, he stands back.

They have never been that close. They are a makeshift family, brought together by circumstances. Eöl dealt more than just one wound that day. Both, the Princess and the King seemed unreachable for a recently orphaned boy.

Now, much older and a little wiser, Maeglin believes the physical distance existed long before his birth.

Lady Idril is not the most affectionate person. As careful as he has to be with his own touch, Maeglin notices his cousin initiates physical contact deliberately. To show comfort, to partake in a discussion or to make a statement. Brushing shoulders when she stands closer to the Lords than usual, a hand placed on a forearm or requesting an escort and taking an offered arm.

 _She always avoided me._ This is nothing new. Idril's reservations against him were well known, but not the reason behind it. Not that Maeglin was allowed to delve deep enough to figure out the motivations behind his cousin's dislike. _Maybe I should have pressed harder, made an effort. Maybe I would have noticed that she avoided her father's touch just as much._

Only Turgon sitting so close to his daughter causes him to realize that he is not the only one the princess kept at bay.

Maeglin swallows dry. The silence after the healer's announcement is oppressing.

"I will likely be able to confirm your theory." He does not look forward to it, but Maeglin has to ensure Gondolin's safety. It is not the first time he will use his skills on a close-lipped person.

Often they are Elves brought to him by Duilin who picks up those trying to leave the city. On occasion, even those who found Gondolin by accident.

All of them Maeglin has silenced, one way or another. Those not willing to keep their mouth shut, work with him in the mines. The King's laws on the matter are absolute. No one leaves Gondolin. Not without very serious oath preventing them from uttering any kind of words that could lead to revealing their location.

That the Princess vanished along with a Lord of high-standing is as close to high-treason as they could get.

The sheer scope of what Irilta just revealed hits Maeglin like an unfortunate blow to the head on the training grounds.

_She is pregnant with Glorfindel's child!_

Until this very moment, Maeglin had been convinced his cousin is a victim of tragedy. That Orcs found the valley and took them as prisoners, while the Lady Idril and the Lord Glorfindel spend some time away from the bustling city.

As someone close to Ecthelion, their companionship grew over the last year but they were friendly with each other before that, he had not wished to believe the rumours of secret lovers trying to escape Tumladen. On Ecthelion's behalf, Maeglin hoped for anything but a letter which informs a broken-hearted lover and a distraught King of a marriage.

 _Who is going to believe her now? The evidence against her is damming._ Maeglin struggles with the pity he feels for Ecthelion right now.

Not knowing what happened might have been preferable in the face of the child his lover had with another.

Finally, Maeglin decides he cannot run from the truth anymore. He hesitate to pry too deep into his cousin's thoughts, hoping there would be another to free him from this task. Turgon himself, perhaps. But Maeglin cannot let his uncle take this journey. Regardless of what he is going to find, Turgon does not deserve to see the images accompanying harsh facts.

"I would like to ask you to leave," Maeglin says to his uncle and his lover. "I am going to touch the Princess' mind in order to find out if she has revealed Gondolin's location to anyone. It will be my main focus, but depending on what I will find it is wiser if only Healer Irilta is present."

"Permission granted. Do what you must."

Turgon appears visibly relieved and rises from the bed. He is already facing the door, ready to put distance between himself and the truth. The many, many truth lurking under his daughter's forehead.

"Lómion." The King turns around again, focusing on his nephew's face. Looks him directly into his eyes in a manner he usually avoids. "Please come to me afterwards. I understand your reasoning, but I do not wish for you to carry this burden alone. Afterwards, we will discuss how to proceed."

Maeglin nods. His throat is too tight to speak.

He nudges Tuor who understands he is to follow the King.

"I will see you later," Tuor whispers. It is unnecessary to declare that he will not leave Turgon's side.

The doors close and Maeglin remains alone with Irilta, not counting his unconscious cousin.

  
  


  
  


  
  


"How much time do we have?" Healer Irilta asks. They do not appear any different than usual, already driving by the next task instead of lingering on feelings.

They are not like Maeglin who attempts to calm the swirling and beating turmoil in his stomach.

His heart pounds against his chest.

"We have as much time as we need. That the Princess' health is a top priority is evident. The King is aware of the range of abilities," Maeglin says. "I have been ordered to use my skill on other citizens in the past, as long as I do not harm them my uncle does not care about secrets I unearth in the meantime."

"Good to know," Irilta hums. They snatch up one of Idril's wrists. "Do wish me to restrain her? We do not know how she is going to react. She might harm us _and_ herself in a defensive reaction."

Maeglin's nod is grim but confident and takes the leather cuffs Irilta offers him. He ties his cousin's arms to the bed and then watches the healer proceed with the princess' upper body. They are careful to avoid the region around her stomach. Until Irilta fully examined Idril they must act as if the child inside her truly innocent.

 _I do not if I would rather have her bear the child of a stranger,_ Maeglin thinks while the healer prepares the essentials.

His father taught him a lot about Orcs, how they live and think and that they more than overgrown vermin. Maeglin is confident no one else possesses such knowledge, especially in Gondolin. Eöl was thorough in his studies of the enemy, driven by the fear to fall into their hands again.

A realization Maeglin had far too late. Eöl was decades dead before he was able to understand his father's actions. Enough to forgive him, on a certain level. Though, he certainly he does not know everything about Eöl's long life. Only that is was rarely pleasant. That he chose to hide in Nan Elmoth for a reason.

"Orcs can breed with Elves they take prisoners, don't they?" Maeglin asks Irilta.

The healer looks up, pausing in his task to put together a few calming draughts and injections.

"I have never seen evidence of it. You are the one who discussed the possibilities, but from what I know about their physiology it has to be possible." The healer opens up an old argument which began with a young orphaned boy wanting to know if his father was evil.

It leads to Irilta questioning what Maeglin knew about Orcs and what Eöl's own studies had produced.

"May I asked why you wish to discuss this, _right now?"_

Irilta's voice is sharp, sounding impatient. The tone reminds Maeglin they are more friends and only lovers on occasion. Tuor's arrival changed the dynamic. They never discussed the few times they shared a bed, too alike in their manner on how to deal with people.

"Persistent rumours claim an Elleth cannot get pregnant unwillingly." Maeglin is careful in voicing his doubts but he would like to discuss this before he faces the depth of Idril's mind. "Given how long it takes them to be ready in order to conceive, they are supposed to control with whom create a child."

There is also the belief Elves die from rape. In Gondolin, this is used as an excuse to explain coercion and seduction away, claiming that violating an unwilling participant always results in death.

Maeglin has his father as counter-argument and has formed the theory that depends upon the fragility of the spirit.

Idril always had a strong will.

"You will learn the truth sooner or later. I am afraid there is nothing I can do about the situation," Irilta snaps. "The Princess is too far along, the child _has to_ be born regardless of what becomes of it or what it looks like. Unless of course, you wish to bury it along with your cousin."

Anger surges through his veins. Maeglin seethes and his emotions do not fit his surroundings. The grand beautiful palace does not fit his mood. Too much light, windows shining with blue lights at night while ancient trees, planted at the founding of the city, equal the heights of Turgon's towers.

He wishes to have brought Anguirel. It carries the shadows of Nan Elmoth with it, its rich dark hues, the scent of poisonous swamps and dark enchanted waters.

Due to the lack of a good answer, Maeglin only snarls. He sits down on the bed and reaches for Idril's hand. He has seen more of the world than most people living in Gondolin. He visited Nogrod and Belegost with his father, travelled along the Dwarven Road and grew up in the shadows of Nan Elmoth. If he ventured to the edge of the forest, he was able to hear the whispering of Doriath' trees from the east.

He knows loss and suffering. Personally and through the eyes of other people.

Turgon's daughter is not the first. Nor, very likely, she shall be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world is getting crazier each day. My personal situation is well enough, I will know if I have to go to work on Monday. Since others may need encouragement or just a little distraction: Here is the second chapter. Warning: Explicit Sex.

The walls have ears. They are listening, enclosing her. Circling like a hungry animal, pacing slowly and unhurried. Her heartbeat is loud, deafening to her own ears as blood rushes through her veins. It tells Idril she is still alive. The walls know it too.

Slowly her eyes blink open. Her vision is fuzzy, but she can tell the doors have eyes too. They are watching her, studying her movements. Always. There is no way to put up an act when you cannot take a break from it. The doors have watched her crumble. They have watched her scream.

"Glorfindel?" Idril whispers. Her throat is not as dry as it should be.

His silence causes her to panic. She cannot hear him, she cannot see him.

Idril tries to rise and kicks her covers away. Only then she notices she is not strapped down. There are no shackles around her feet or around her arms. A quick look down confirms she is still dressed. With the covers still above her waist, Idril reaches down between her legs. The flesh there feels normal. Not as pure as it once was, but not sore either.

_Me losing consciousness has never stopped them before._

A quiet sob sounds through the room. Idril thinks it is her own.

It takes her seconds to realize the imagery in front of her is wrong. She is sitting in a soft bed. Thin curtains flutter as a cold breeze sweeps through an open window. The walls are painted white. Flower pods sit on dressers and large murals grace the room.

One of them shows the garden in front of the house she grew up in. The painting depicts her mothers favourite flowers.

Unable to process the truth in front of her, Idril does not notice the person on her left raising from a chair.

"Princess? Are you awake?"

Idril turns, already shaken and stares into Ecthelion's worried face.

This time, she screams.

  
  


  
  


"I am incredibly sorry, my Prince." Ecthelion looks dismayed as Maeglin checks his cousin upon her fainting. "It was not my intention to scare her."

"It is not your fault, I expected such a reaction," Maeglin says while holding Idril's hand and placing the other on her forehead. "She was not lucid when we found her in the mountains, it is not much of a stretch that she reacts with fright after waking up in a drastic change in the environment."

"Will she recognize us, next time she wakes up?" Ecthelion wants to know.

He does not comment on the Prince carefully staying out of sight when the Princess showed signs of stirring. Ecthelion himself was only allowed to approach her after the first disorientation passed.

"I think so, yes." Maeglin draws his hands away. Idril is sleeping peacefully again. "Her mind is not that damaged that she will not recognize friend from foe once the first confusion passes."

Maeglin hopes Ecthelion does not see shadow on his face. In fact, it would be easier if Idril's mind showed signs of having been tampered with. Right now, there are a lot of details which are still buried beneath the shades clinging to her unbalanced mind. As far as he can tell, there is no structural damage.

Idril does not feel like Eöl. His father's mind showed broken pillars, holes in the ceiling and wide cracks in the walls. He would required healing beyond Maeglin's skill.

His cousin's mind feels weathered, cold and abandoned, but not wrong.

"Do you believe she will be able to tell us her story?" Ecthelion hesitates to touch the Princess, but he stares at her face as if he could read the answers he seeks from the shape her eyebrows.

Maeglin does not sigh, but a surge of pity claims his heart and makes it difficult to breathe for a moment.

"I fear her answers won't bring you the relief you seek, Lord Ecthelion," Maeglin says carefully. He has seen into Idril's mind and glimpsed enough to get the larger picture.

Grief shadows Ecthelion's face. Once again his eyes water, but the tears do not fall.

Not yet. They will once Ecthelion is alone.

"She said his name." Ecthelion's voice wavers. "She must know what happened to him."

"Yes." Maeglin gathers all his courage and speaks the harsh words of truth. "He is most likely already dead and if he died quickly or protecting the Princess, then it is a kinder fate than anticipated."

"He lived long enough to fuck her."

Lord Ecthelion's cape flutters when he storms out of the room.

Idril does not even twitch when the doors fall shut and Maeglin sinks back on the chair. The anger on Ecthelion's face when he left may not be healthy in the long run, but it will keep him upright for the time being.

He hopes the Lord will not take it personally that Maeglin used his relationship with Glorfindel to personally confirm the unborn babe's father. Healer Irilta is good, but the announcements his uncle was preparing needed to be thoroughly confirmed.

  
  


-

  
  


  
  


  
  


"You look miserable."

Tuor finds Maeglin in the library. The Elf has hidden away in a corner, his bare feet drawn up under his body while he is deeply immersed in a book. It is small, old and worn. Tuor would be afraid to touch it. The pages are already fallen apart and the text is most likely older than himself.

Maeglin raises an eyebrow. "Do you expect me to be happy?"

"Of course not," Tuor answers. He shakes his head. "But you are calm and far less angry than I expected you to be."

"We cannot all be an emotional wreck like my uncle, Tuor. The Lords are waiting for instructions and guidance and right now the King cannot provide it." Maeglin swipes his thumb over the old paper. "I do not mind making myself useful. It gives me less time to mull over situations I cannot change."

In the last days, he has seen how his lover attempts to find a suitable solution to the mess they are in. One short session with the Lords of Gondolin only served to inform the court of Lady Idril's return. Her pregnancy was still a secret and the whispered rumours of long absence are being deliberately used as a distraction.

The tactic leaves a sour taste in Tuor's mouth because Maeglin asked him to colour the truth in a certain light. Unfortunately, his lover has no other choice. Many will not ask the Prince directly, out of fear and respect. His mortal lover is a safe bet and since it takes the weight of Maeglin's shoulders Tuor follows the request.

"What are you researching?" Tuor asks. He can guess Maeglin's unhappy thoughts, but he is curious what kind of solution the Prince is looking into.

Silver eyes flash with sorrow and Maeglin once again cradles the book like a treasure made of gold and jewels. It is not just the dim light of the library that make his gaze intense. Tuor has discovered while Maeglin has the usual Noldorin colouring, his eyes are sharper and brighter. Which has little to do with his personality as Tuor once believed. Instead, they carry the silver of Eöl whose hair and eyes had the Sindarin complexion. Though, according to Maeglin, the Elf did not answer to Elu Thingol's court and kept his distance despite living right next to the forests of Doriath.

"This is one of my mother's journals she kept in Nan Elmoth. Eöl was jealous and possessive, but he did not forbid her to write down her thoughts and findings." Maeglin's voice is soft, barely audible and he stares at the pages as if they hold actual images from the past. "He respected her knowledge and training. She was a huntress who was one of the few able to handle the dangers Nan Elmoth kept away so many."

The pride is difficult to miss. That is there at all is a credit to their relationship. Tuor imagines that Lady Aredhel must have been an exceptional woman to walk unhindered through a magical forest. From his own years, Tuor remembers the quiet and the peace. He remembers existing on small traps, roots and cold water from springs while living deep inside forests where his biggest worry had been wolves and mountain lions.

On occasion, he would come across old settlements. Since they had all been burned to the ground and overgrown he avoided them. The white bones sticking out of the earth, still visible and fresh after the lands and its people were lost with the Nirnaeth. During his youth, Tuor had only the knowledge Annael taught him, but six years in isolation made him wonder if _something_ in Hithlum had died with Fingon the Valiant.

"Do you seek comfort in her thoughts or answers?"

The chair Maeglin is sitting on is not big enough to hold them both. Tuor leans over the broad shoulders to catch a glimpse, but he can barely make out the words, let alone understand them.

"Answers, for once. Naneth often described the effects Nan Elmoth can have on the untrained mind. She learned a lot of techniques from Eöl, adding them to her own mastery of defensive skills," Maeglin explains. "I hope, it will give me some idea how to treat Itarillë. She has gone through much and has a difficult journey ahead of her."

"Do you fear she is going to fade?"

Tuor has learned that mysterious ailment is an actual danger to Elves. He found it in his mother as well. He was too young to remember her, but Annael described how Rían had given up herself after hearing about Huor's death. His father he has even less connection to and only learned about in Gondolin of all places.

It does not make it any easier, finding sympathy for people who rather climb under the covers of their beds than face the next day.

 _I ran from Lorgan's torment, but I never considered seeking death,_ Tuor thinks. Maybe because he thought that dying would not make his memories any brighter.

"I don't know. My cousin used to be a strong-willed woman, but this can be just as damaging the soul. I cannot predict yet her reactions," Maeglin says. Tuor believes to see distant worry and acceptance in his eyes.

"It is not your fault if you do not wish to get your hopes up," Tuor says to reassure Maeglin. He rubs his thumbs over his neck, having placed his hands on Maeglin's shoulders. "It does not make you a bad person. You have your uncle if you need someone to place unshakable faith in Lady Idril's recovery."

"You are right, as you usually are." Maeglin sighs and closes the book. He sets it aside and rubs his temples with his fingertips.

Tuor aches for his lover. Headaches are Maeglin's signs for stress and he is clearly chafing under the weight of responsibility.

The worst is that Tuor cannot dissuade Maeglin to leave the topic alone. A godsend him to a hidden city and as it appears Ulmo will get his will. Evacuating Gondolin seems inevitable at this point despite the impossibility of it when he first arrived.

"Right now, I can only guess Itarillë's reactions to her surroundings, not her development in the future. I might as well as focus on other duties," Maeglin says, implying that he is committed to _more important_ burdens than the survival of the Princess. Let alone her well being.

"Will you rest for the next hours?" Tuor wants to know and tugs at Maeglin's sleeve. His hands are massaging tense shoulders and the touch slowly turns suggestive.

Maeglin turns his head and Tuor shifts under the intensity.

This is not a good time. There is a court session scheduled for this evening. Maeglin is going to moderate it, meeting up with King beforehand to discuss the necessary steps. Tuor himself volunteered to sit with the Princess because he doubts he is going to be needed. At least not today, he will join in as soon as the Lords of Gondolin are actually planning the evacuation.

Today's session is merely to inform them in detail of what happened to the Princess.

"Is this about sharing grief in comfort?" Maeglin asks, but he rises at the same time and presses Tuor against a bookshelf.

Who is just a man and very familiar with the Prince after two years of living with him. The warm breath on his skin never fails to arouse him, though Maeglin is not even doing anything yet. There is only a gentle pressure, a reminder that Tuor cannot get away if the Elf in front of him does not want him to.

"We might enjoy the peace while it lasts," Tuor lets out a shaky breath.

The thrill settling in his stomach is as exciting as unsettling. He turns his neck when Maeglin bows down to kiss it, arousal quickly setting his skin on fire. There had not much time, lately. Tuor never reproached his lover for attending to his duties. As a side-effect, their lovemaking is always so much more intense than outsiders would expect it to be.

Tuor moans Maeglin's name and swallows the next sound, aware that they are still within the royal library. It should be empty, the late Princess Aredhel's books are kept in a secure place, but they are not at their home either.

Insistent hands teasing him through his trousers predict where this journey is going to end. Tuor bucks beneath the palm rubbing over the growing bulge and sobs quietly into Maeglin's mouth.

The wet tongue against his lips, the heated kiss itself, is enough to distract him from the cold that hits his warm skin when Maeglin opens Tuor's belt with one hand. The Atan lifts his hips, but it takes two attempts to shove the pants to floor. The thick carpet swallows the sound of falling clothes and Tuor realizes that they are really heading towards having sex in the palace.

In King Turgon's home, empty as it is.

"So, how do you want it?" Maeglin whispers and wraps his fingers around Tuor's length.

It is already hard and throbbing, Maeglin himself is quickly getting there. He swallows Tuor's small whine with a kiss and brushes the head of the twitching member with his thumb.

The Atan's eagerness is nothing new, but it speaks of the trust their built together, given Tuor's past experiences.

"Lómion!" Tuor's voice trembles. He is moving his hips to meet Maeglin's loose grip around his cock, already desperate.

They discovered together how much placing his trust in Maeglin arouses Tuor. It is a confirmation that he is beyond what the slavers did to him in his youth. It often leads to Maeglin leading ahead and Tuor attempting to answer the demands.

"Tell me what you want!" Maeglin's voice is a dark whisper.

He catches Tuor's roaming hands to secure them above his head. The bookshelf is sturdy and unlikely to give out, it can easily hold Maeglin's and Tuor's combined weight. The wood and the books serve as a reminder of the unusual place, though.

Both of them prefer the privacy of the house next to Maeglin's forge, though ut is hardly the first time he placed them in a compromising position.

"Please..." Tuor's word is a surrender, a reconfirmation that he is willing to go along with whatever Maeglin wants.

The Prince fights with his own desires. The library is not the right place for their usual games. Not that is would stop him, but he has not brought any supplies to give Tuor what they both want.

Maeglin crashes their lips together, kissing the Atan hard until the lack of air forces them to gasp for a breath.

"We can use one of the many unoccupied offices," Maeglin says, panting and tries to calculate where is the nearest one they can use.

Suddenly he does not want to settle for a brief struggle, Tuor only half-dressed and rubbing himself against Maeglin. No, as the situation has revealed, time is precious.

"Yes," Tuor nods in agreement.

There are faint bruises on his wrists when he pulls his pants back up. He fails in his attempts to place his hard and leaking member back inside. In the end, Maeglin does it for him and Tuor whimpers into the kisses he steals from the Prince.

  
  


  
  


They rush into one of Maeglin's offices. It is a private study with a lock. Thankfully the palace is empty, all employees and peasants busy with the new orders of the King. They do not run into a single soul and Tuor is glad, for reason for their dishevelled state is obvious.

"I don't want to wait," Maeglin growls and crowds his lover against the heavy door he locked a few seconds ago.

Tuor nods and moans. As an Elf and Prince of Gondolin Maeglin has far more self-control, not to mention patience. Quick, heated lovemakings are rare between them, because they both like to take their time. Sometimes Maeglin takes it so far in his teasing that Tuor becomes delirious with want.

Now, they are beyond that. The tension of the last week is seeking an outlet, causing Tuor to end up being pressed against the door face first. He needs to support himself, balling his hands to fists when fingers slicked up with oil find the cleft between his ass.

Tuor's own need and desire makes it easy for the fingers to slip past the entrance. Within minutes he is riding his lover's hands, rocking back on the fingers stretching and preparing him.

He shivers, senseless to the world beyond Maeglin's touch who is pressed close against him, his chest flush to Tuor's back.

The bulge of Maeglin's pants prods against his thigh, a promise what is about to come.

"I want to see you," Tuor moans when he finally cannot take it any longer.

There is already a wet spot on the door, from Tuor's own hard member Maeglin ignored while keeping up his ministrations. It is due to the Prince's impatience that Tuor hasn't come already, usually, it is easy enough to bring him to the point with Maeglin using his fingers alone until his lover his shaking and begging.

"Good," Maeglin rasps and turns Tuor around. He quickly opens his pants, not bothering to shove them down and only pulls out his hard, thick length.

In the next moment, he has Tuor up against the door, his hands lifted the Atan up until he wraps his legs around Maeglin's waist.

His cock brushes over the soft, wet entrance exactly once, causing Tuor to buck and tremble with need. It is the only encouragement Maeglin needs before he pushes inside. He is neither slow nor gentle, but Tuor's soft cry is accompanied by his body clenching around the familiar intrusion.

"Yes," Tuor hisses. With Maeglin surrounding him, he has barely time to notice how he is rubbing against the soft fabric of the Prince's shirt.

  
  


  
  


A short while later Maeglin places Tuor's trembling legs on the ground, softly kissing his lover as they both attempt to catch their breath.

"This was unexpected," he comments and guides them both a sitting area. "But very welcome. I apologize if I was rougher than you intended."

"I would have told you to stop," Tuor says. He runs his hands through his hair.

It is damp and his skin sweaty. He will have to wash, at least, to get rid of the prominent scent of sex. Elven sight and hearing tended to be much better than their sense of smell, but right now it would unmistakable. Not that Tuor cared much about what the Lords of Gondolin thought of him and Maeglin together. Elvish societies ignored such arrangements or acknowledged them without making much fuss about it.

The situation, though, called for a little decency. With the Princess's fate still fragile and her condition probably about the get worse with the birth of her child approaching fast, it would be a scandal to flaunt his relationship with the Prince.

"I hope so," Maeglin says and combs through Tuor's shorter hair with his fingers. "Sometimes I worry how easily we fall into the dynamic of our relationship."

"You are only doing what I asked you to do." Tuor rests his head against Maeglin's shoulder, stretching out on the couch. "Though, by now we know each other well enough to skip most of the unnecessary talk."

The Prince only hums, indicating that something is still bothering him. Before Tuor can prompt him to keep everything inside, at least not about this when he has enough worries eating him up already, Maeglin speaks up again.

"One could argue that your inclinations are a result of your past, habits born from the trauma others heaved upon you." Maeglin glances out of the window, his gaze far away, but his arm his wrapped around Tuor's naked waist. "I have no such excuses."

The couch beneath his skin is soft and a blanket covers their undressed state. Tuor bathes in contentment despite the lack of homely welcome from the office. It is on the lower levels near the library and clearly intended to be rented out when a project required leaving books and papers behind. As a result the stone is naked and the furniture sparse.

Servants even took down any paintings, removed all vases and the curtains. They rather keep them in storage than have them rot away unused.

Sometimes Tuor wonders about Elves and their strange habits, but he has learned that many craftsmen and artists exist to replace all kinds of features which use their functionality after a decade or two. In the city of Gondolin, everything is man-made, artificial and replaceable.

Only the Eldar with their immortal lives last forever.

Or longer than a Man at least, given what happened the Princess.

Tuor tries to banish such thoughts. They are merely odd observations. Musings he usually has no time for, except at moments like these when he is laying Maeglin's arms. Shortly after they had sex and the evidence of their activities is drying on Tuor's thighs.

He cranks his neck to look at Maeglin. Tuor smiles, allowing himself to think that Maeglin is beautiful. There had been times when admitting such truth would have been impossible.

"Regardless of your reasons, I am grateful for your open-minded thinking. You told yourself that I should not feel ashamed for admitting my needs and desires," Tuor says and reaches up to pull his lover down for a kiss. "If I am allowed to be comfortable with bowing to you in deference, why should you not enjoy it? Especially when it comes to sexual pleasures?"

The deep frown Maeglin shows together with the high arch of his black eyebrows, half-hidden behind the sweaty-wet curls of his hair how the deeply subject upsets him.

Tuor believes it is the concern for his cousin paired with his inability to change the Princess' situation.

Anger colours Maeglin's tone when he speaks up. It is most likely direct at himself.

"I have seen things in Itarillë's mind that bothers me. There is more what I have already known, through my father's tales, but is new and incomprehensible to others. You are one of the few who can relate, through your own horrible experiences. I fear that I will get lost or go too far. Please watch out for yourself ... and me, just in case."

Tuor should be taking this more seriously, but he feels content and happy. With a challenging smile, he twists around until he's laying on his stomach. It leaves him in the perfect position to press a kiss against the hard abs of Maeglin's abdomen.

"Of course I can watch you," he murmurs and nuzzles the thigh he has been using a pillow.

One hand curls around Maeglin's back, the other travel's up to his leg, slowly getting out of the way as he kisses a soft patch of skin before dark hair tickles his nose.

"This is not what I meant," Maeglin hisses but buries his hands in Tuor's much brighter hair anyway.

"So do you want me to take a closer look?" Tuor says, smiling and doesn't mind how fingers scratch over his scalp almost painfully. He tastes the still salty flesh with a short lick before pulling away again.

Maeglin's low grumbled 'Yes' is the last word on the matter, then he pulls Tuor's head deeper into his lap.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Please be careful and stay healthy. 
> 
> I am also tempted to write more explicit Maeglin/Tuor content. An excuse for porn and borderline unhealthy coping mechanisms, because ... if it is this bad now, who knows what is going to happen *later* ...


	3. Chapter 3

Later Maeglin heads towards Turgon's office. Thanks to the few hours they had to himself, he is in a far better mood than he probably deserves. But he will not ever say no when his lover offers the surrender himself, insisted to bring Maeglin pleasure until it is no longer possible to say who enjoys the act more. Not that Maeglin would leave Tuor discontent. Right now, the Atan is probably glad for the break.

He offered to clean the office and open the windows. Maeglin quickly agreed, unwilling to accompany Tuor on his way to Itarillë. With the session of the Lord of Gondolin looming, he is glad to escape his cousin's sickbed. Tuor is the bed option to keep her company, though she should do little more than sleep.

In the last days, the Princess developed a fever. Quite normal, according to Irilta. Her body is flushing out sicknesses, harmful virus and minor infections, taking the opportunity to heal. A few times she had been reported to wake up, but the periods were brief and little more than her subconscious ensuring she got a little food and plenty of water. Until she slipped out of the healing trance Irilta put her in, there is nothing more than Maeglin can do for her.

Although there is plenty more to manage and worry about.

He resists the urge to rub his temples and knocks against his uncle's office instead. Maeglin enters before he can get even a response, he has no time to dally.

"Good evening, uncle. I see you are busy," Maeglin says upon entering. The study is in disarray, a state Turgon would have never allowed before. He hated disorder and a messy workplace.

In the past, they argued about the state of Maeglin's forge. Especially when the King tried to heave a secretary upon his nephew who would keep his house, his own office and his workbench in order. Miraculously no one ever lasted long. Maeglin chased them all away.

He is tempted to say something, but the mood does not call for a light joke about Turgon's desk threatens to vanish beneath papers. Piles of books cover the carpet, requiring Maeglin to manoeuvre carefully through the maze to get to the part where he thinks his uncle left the chairs.

"Come in, Lómion. Please, sit down. Just put the books on the ground somewhere, they are not important," Turgon says.

"Why did you use them for?" Maeglin asks. At this point, it would not surprise him if his uncle builds a bed out of the many books he keeps around and slept here rather than in his own bed.

"They are accounts of the journey across the Helcaraxë. I searched them for the numbers of wagons we started out with when we left Tirion," Turgon answers. He is half sitting on his desk, half leaning against it.

Next to him is a tower of handwritten notes. Conclusions from his research, Maeglin muses.

But it is the topic itself that makes him curious. With a glance towards the assemblage of maps on spread out on the desk as well, he says, "Have you decided what to do? The Lords of Gondolin and other High Houses are going to ask you the same question in a few hours."

Turgon's deep sigh reveals a heavy-hearted face. Neither of them showed great care in doing their hair today. The King even left the circlet behind, appearing far more casual than in the past. Maeglin has only spotty memories of the instances his uncle left the pomp, the robes and the proper decor behind. In his case, it is a preference. It is just the way Turgon feels comfortable.

In hindsight, Maeglin wonders if his cousin took her father's behaviour a little too seriously. She copies him a lot, but unlike him, she never seems to relax.

Maeglin has learned to read the moods. When his uncle is comfortable, leaning back in a secluded corner with a bottle of wine and a book, then he is content. When he is sitting straight instead of one arm was thrown over the backrest and his legs stretched out in front of him, Turgon is working internally through a topic that is bothering him. The King does not always speak his thoughts but keeps them for himself until he returns cheerful and humming under his breath one morning, having found a solution that works for him.

They are alike, in that regard. Maeglin never confided in his uncle either.

They might be family, but they have never been that close.

"We will evacuate the city." Turgon forces the words out of his mouth and says sound like an admission of defeat.

Maeglin doubles back and stares at his uncle. He argued with Tuor when the Man arrived in the city. Then and in all the months after how likely it would be for the King to heed Ulmo's warning. It was one reason why they grew closer in the first place. Maeglin wanted to hear tales about the world outside and Tuor hadn't known what to do with himself.

The King offered Tuor his freedom. A chance to leave the city in return for a binding oath, out of respect for Húrin and Huor.

Tuor refused, unwilling to abandon his quest and fully knowing the life in Gondolin would safer and more comfortable than anything that he experienced before. The Atan had also been unwilling to give up, though he stopped openly arguing for leaving the city as the Vala had warned.

"I am surprised you are actually going through with it. It may be a logical conclusion to our situation, but I expected more resistance." Maeglin cannot keep the surprise out of his voice. He hopes his uncle is going to shed some light onto his decision.

Not able to hide his dejected expression, Turgon reaches for the map rolled out behind him.

"I may say that I surprised myself, but last night I realized that any kind of conditions I tried to put on a possible evacuation, have already been fulfilled. It is senseless to delay the decision, the preparations are going to take months even without us trying to delay our departure."

Sensing the sacrifice Turgon made on behalf of his people, leaving his beloved city behind he poured so much time and effort in, Maeglin stands up to study the map as well.

"Do you have an idea where are you going to lead us?" He asks, softly and swallowing any reassurances that they might return one day.

"The most sensible action would be to follow the river," Turgon says. His fingers land on the Pass an Anach. "Today I am going to send scouts how secure the valley is. It would be the easiest option to use boats and travel as far south as possible."

Maeglin nods, "If necessary, there are tunnels that lead through the Crissaerim. Going through the mountains might be slower and more difficult, but they are undoubtedly more well protected."

"Or we might end up trapped." Turgon frowns. "But the route is a good alternative. We will discuss is with Duilin and Rog. Their answer, the security surrounding Tumladen and the state of the mines, will bring the decision."

"Either way we are going to end up in Dimbar." Maeglin points at the area between the Forest of Brethil and the Forest of Neldoreth where two smaller rivers merge and finally become the River Sirion.

The unvoiced question is literally written on the map.

The idea to travel via the river makes a great deal of sense. The space in Tumladen is limited. Once the Lords of Gondolin even discussed what they should do in case the numbers of citizens exceed what the valley can hold, but that was before the great battle that felled too many warriors. Now they had even fewer horses than before.

 _Any animal will be needed to pull a cart,_ Maeglin thinks. _Cows, Oxes and donkeys. We do not have that many, but they will do._

Goats would turn into transport animals as well. They were Gondolin's preferred resource, given how large they could grow and climbed the mountainsides around them.

"What do you worry more about, Doriath or what remains of Nargothrond?" Maeglin finally asks. He tries to remember how far Queen Melian's girdle reaches. But having lived on the eastern flank, the west side never concerned his father.

"From what Tuor told us we cannot put much hope in Findaráto's city. There are even rumours about a dragon living in it." Misery flashes through Turgon's eyes. It must pain him, the knowledge that the city has fallen. Very much like his friend.

Maeglin has the suspicion his uncle rode out with Duilin as escort once to visit his friend's grave, but he cannot say for sure.

"Let's try to get to Doriath first. If the situation requires it, we will settle in West Beleriand, but I wish to make it south of Andram. With Hithlum fallen and Himring rumoured to be sealed off, lingering north the mountains will only delay the inevitable."

No wonder his uncle looks so tired. Maeglin's pity exceeds ancient anger. A lifetime ago he raged against his father not being allowed to leave and found himself trapped in a society he despised. Lashing out had not helped, of course. It ended with his mother and his father dead. Maeglin had feared from early childhood on that his parents would kill one another in one of their ugly fights.

This one, though, left him surrounded by strangers.

Strangers he had grown to love and would defend against the approaching armies.

He hadn't found any hints in Itarillë's memory that she had Angband's hordes on her heels, but images buried within the mind are difficult to access. Perception was more than eyesight and it was impossible to say if the Princess had been fooled.

Maeglin would vote for yes, given how he couldn't find any reliable memories how the child in her belly came to be.

"The preparations are going to take time, even if we begin immediately." Maeglin tries to stomach the thoughts of the riots they would face. Too many believed Gondolin to be secure and unless they convinced all of the Lords to support the campaign, the resulting chaos would be dangerous.

The only hope was the King's popularity and absolute authority.

Turgon's eyes darken and Maeglin is suddenly faced with a battle commander. Not that his uncle has much experience, but it is easy to forget that this is the Son of Fingolfin and current High King. At least, as far as the succession was concerned. The talks between Lord Maedhros and his uncle had been strained when they met after the Nirnaeth Arnodiad to lay Fingon to rest.

Both deemed Gil-galad too young to rule. The little cousin Maeglin had never met who hopefully still lived with Lord Círdan.

"We will leave after the child is born," Turgon says. "Irilta guessed that Itarillë has only two or three months left. It is the perfect time frame for us and reason to hurry along. We are isolated and any large movements leaving the mountains will no doubt be detected soon."

The idea sits uneasily with Maeglin. The intention behind it is clear.

"What _exactly_ are you going to tell the others?" He wants to know. Using an unborn child to get his people in line sounds harsh and outrageous.

On the other hand, the baby might not survive. Or his cousin might not, though death upon the child-bed is rare for Elleth. Their bodies are built for a quick, easy birth. Rarely, there are complications requiring a healer.

With so many dangers threatening the life of an Elven child before it is able to fend for itself, Eru made the birth itself a little easier.

"The truth," Turgon says and does not elaborate further. Maeglin suspects it will be _his truth,_ though, which travel through Tumladen soon and not a widespread possibility of opinions.

The King leaves it at that.

Maeglin shrugs. He does not envy his cousin. By the time she returns to her senses, her father will have made up his mind. It is not the first time he dictates actions against his daughter's wishes, but Maeglin is the last person capable of helping out.

The map spread out in front of him is a visible reminder of how many problems they will face before they can be sure of their safety again.

As a result their situation leaves little room to argue. Uprooting an entire city will not be easy, especially after the King refused a messenger from Ulmo. If his uncle wished to see it happen without losing his authority at the same time, he had to use his daughter as a motive.

The Princess' return from a questionable time away was reason enough, but a lot would depend on Lady Idril's reactions once she recovered.

The birth of a child, though, was different. Glorfindel's likely demise and involvement would invoke pity within the entire city. The Lord of the Golden Flower had been well-liked. Maeglin even goes so far to deem him as the perfect candidate to make a hero out of him despite the little knowledge they have of him.

 _The child will bring hope. It will be the reason why Gondolin's citizens are going to uproot themselves,_ Maeglin thinks. _They will go as far as a dream up an even bigger, grander place than this. The necessity to leave will fade in comparison to the future the unborn represents._

Grabbing a pen and a few sheets of paper which looked unimportant enough, Maeglin settled into the chair.

"Who do you think we will have to convince the most?" He asks.

They had one hour left to prepare the session with the Lords.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Her hair looked like golden threats. Once more. Finally.

Cut short and straightened by the careful hands of a faceless but devoted lover.

He remembers combing through the strands when they had the colour of wet sand and her cheek was pressed against stone, not a white soft pillow.

The eyes remain closed. They used to have the colour of marigolds, burning like dying embers from the torch they were allowed to keep from time to time. Often the lovely colour melted into maroon. With the dirt under her fingernails and the ashes on her face, she transformed from a white dove flying in freedom into a creature living where the rusting bars of their cells meets the stone.

"Such modesty." The words circle the sleeping maiden and their speaker glances to the dress his wife has been clothed with.

So white. Almost pure and innocent.

Beneath the thin nightclothes wait her breasts, round and soft. Ivory globes, like soft hills covered in snow.

His hand reaches out to touch what is his.

For such a long time he admired, beheld her azure veins and defended her blood like a lion when foulness toppled the throne the Lady resided on.

But a roaring lion becomes hungry and in his rage, he turns towards the Lady's snow-white skin. His chains cut into his skin, colder than the long darkness he suffered through.

The Lady's skin warms him. Her drumming heart cheers up his burning eyes.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Aeglos raises his head.

Outside the windows, the city lies in darkness. Like a sleeping pound with only the occasional water-lily floating by.

Unsure what noise prompted his cause for alarm, Aeglos closes the window. It is cold inside the room and the Princess is sleeping. No need to disturb her rest through a cold breeze. Minutes pass as he waits, listening for another sound.

Beneath the hills, far under the window, the city is bathed in silver light.

He cannot name the unease that summons dreadful sights before his inner eye.

The Princess remains undisturbed and Aeglos imagines the scars the Healers hide from curious glances. The woman he carried on his horse was thin, struggled in his hold. She shook with terror and a thousand fears. Her gaze was quick-shifting but far away, not recognizing any of them. Not even her own cousin who trapped the Princess in her own mind to avoid detection on their way back.

Aeglos reaches for the book he has been reading.

He cannot shake the feeling that they are not alone.

  
  


  
  


"Laurefindel?" Idril calls out. She is waking from a familiar nightmare. She is missing the pressure on her skin.

She catches her reflection in one of the windows. What startles her the most is that the woman is not weeping. Nor is she bruised or looking overly bitter.

"Princess Itarillë?" On her left stands an Elf she does not recognize. He looks big and threatening enough to get her into trouble.

Idril tries to find Glorfindel. She believes he is here with her, but she cannot see him.

"Yes, I think so," Idril says and dares to breathe out when the Elf does not come any closer. She still clutches the covers of the bed she is laying in and draws them up as far as she can.

"You will not remember me. My name is Aeglos, I am one of the guards that rescued you," the Elf explains. "You are in Gondolin, my Lady. If you will permit it, I will fetch a healer. Or your family, if you would like. The King worried himself sick the entire year you were gone."

Forced silence settles between them when Idril does not know what to say.

"Oh." Idril breathes out.

She recognizes the chamber. The paintings on the walls seem familiar. The vase on the window still was a gift from Laríel, one of her friends and handmaidens. She has not thought about Laríel in over a year despite how much time they spend together before ...

"Please stay," she whispers. "I would just like to lay here and enjoy your company for a moment."

The Elf named Aeglos agrees. He remains within sight and sits down on the chair he seemed to have occupied before. Idril thinks he is watching her more than the book in his hands but that is fine with her.

She is used to being watched.

Though Glorfindel is nowhere to be seen.

  
  


  
  


  
  


From early on Tuor agreed to keep Lady Idril company. When he arrives to relieve Aeglos of his duty, the Elf sends him a tired nod and rises slowly from his chair.

They talk quietly in front of the Princess' room.

"How long is she awake?" Tuor wants to know. Aside from the Healer, he has been declared as the highest member to decide what to do in a case of emergency.

The King praised his quiet nature and confirmed the trust he put in Ulmo's messenger. The knowledge about his past may play a part as well, as uneasy as it makes Tuor. It is a lot of responsibility thrust upon him.

He had conversations with the Princess' in the past and shared something akin to friendship. Especially when Maeglin was working long hours or travelled through Tumladen for days to check the mines, they meet up over dinner and tea. Tuor always had the impression that the Princess' preferred his company, over-eager courtiers. Perhaps it was also the prospect of new topics to discuss since the Princess had not left Gondolin since they arrived three centuries ago.

"She woke an hour ago. I contacted Healer Irilta. They confirmed that the Princess is stable and should rest," Aeglos reports. He keeps glancing through the half-open door, always making sure not to let the Princess out of his sight. "She drank water and tea. So far she declined any food and said she is not very hungry."

"What did the Healer say?" Tuor wants to know. He remembers a few slaves who struggled with food, though Lorgan made sure they ate well.

He needed workers and people he could use for his own pleasure. Therefore the people he owned and commanded had to be healthy. But food to eat did not mean the slaves were happy with the dry bread, the bowls of fruit and stew. Often they lacked the choice in what to eat, leaving the question of consumption as the only control they had leftover their meagre life.

"Healer Irilta did not worry about her refusal to eat. They said the Princess' stomach has shrunken and is not used to cooked meals right now. He has taken it up to himself to prepare her nutrition." Aeglos does not seem reassured.

Tuor can relate. As warriors and people who travelled a lot and were forced to live on their own away from farmland, the search for food was a constant source of worry. Especially when the forests and the mountains proved to be unreliable since past battles and sorcery turned fertile grounds barren and all large trees now carried inedible fruits.

The thought not to eat when given the chance cannot sit well with Aeglos.

Tuor got used to the idea of cooking meals from Maeglin and himself, he finds joy in it. But he has experienced what Lady Idril is going through.

Sometimes your body becomes your own enemy.

"Give her time. Let her process that she is back. Her appetite will return soon enough," he advises the worried Elf. "Please rest now, you have been watching her for hours."

"Shall I inform the King of her awakening?" Aeglos asks.

Tuor shakes his head, thinking of the court session which has to begin any minute now. "I will send Healer Irilta once they return. The Princess will fall back asleep soon, she still needs rest and I do not want to disturb the King in an important meeting only to disappoint him with a daughter he cannot speak to as his heart desires."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all safe. Take care.


End file.
